


Art Deco

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 20-year-old Sherlock, Drugs, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parties, Songfic, lana del rey - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:18:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5092241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock liked to prowl ‘round at night, dip into house parties, smoke on the streets, or clamber to the top of a hill and feel every quiver of the city’s beating heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art Deco

**Author's Note:**

> So, an anon on [tumblr](http://crimson-winter.tumblr.com) wanted a ficlet (johnlock, I think? If not, too bad) based on Lana Del Rey's song [Art Deco](https://play.spotify.com/track/5jqNQZBwbZWQXPWfo0ygZF), and while I love all things Lana, I'd never heard any of Honeymoon yet, so it took me a while to get around to listening to it. When I did, though - damn. This idea just fit so perfectly.
> 
> Also, sorry about the drugginess of it. Lana makes me think of drugs, and so does young Sherlock, so... yeah.

_Club queen of the downtown scene, prowling around at night._

The pavement damp from evening mist, lamplights streaming yellow light in patches along the way, night dousing the city into darkness, Sherlock Holmes roamed the London streets.

He found that he liked the calm mystery of the night more than anything, and it was easy to let his restless mind carry him out of his bedroom and into the shadows for a long walk. He looked up at the stars, the pale face of the moon, and the laundry lines stretched between buildings, various pieces of clothing swaying in the night breeze.

_You’re not mean._

Walking over damp cement, breath curling misty swirls against the cold air, Sherlock hoped the clean, chilled night would keep him from thinking about the bitterness that lay within him. It didn’t, unfortunately, and he scowled into his upturned collar. He walked a little rougher as he recalled the stupidity of the hot-headed people he’d argued with on the way home - how they just couldn’t take his _word_ that the nature of public transportation was _tedious_ at best, and that trying to start a collective laugh amongst the bus passengers was utterly _stupid_. People, actually, were utterly stupid.

_You’re just born to be seen._

Crinkling his nose at the memory, he whisked it away and turned his face towards the moonlight. It’s hearty glow calmed him, pulling at something in him as if he were a part of it. Actually, he’d been told, once before, that he was like the moon. There was a girl who’d fallen for him, stupidly, in his history class, and she would moon over him, literally, and tell him that he was beautiful. The moon, she said, only came out a night and was so, so beautiful in its wake, almost like it was meant to be gazed at. Sherlock had laughed rudely, and told her that didn’t sound like him at all. She was offended and remained silent. However, a few seconds later, she whispered that his personality might not be the greatest, but that he was, and probably always would be very, very beautiful.

Sherlock, now years past that incident, understood what she’d meant. He knew he was deliciously handsome, almost irritatingly so. His personality was another matter, of course, but purely objectively, he was quite attractive. He was well aware that the prominent angles in his face and how, as he dipped into a column of light, they played with the shadows of his high cheekbones and slender jaw. Spotting a young woman seated at the bus stop, he fluffed his curls playfully and went smug at her gasp, her eyes growing wide with lust. He smirked at her as he passed, plump lips twitching playfully.

_Born to be wild._

He walked a little fast, eager to satisfy the tingling energy inside his bones and nerves. Freshly twenty, an insatiable desire to go against the system coursed through him at every chance for mischief. Always, or whenever he could, Sherlock longed to be uncaged and disastrous. His current life had him bored out of his mind, so any chance to snap at professors or tell strangers how wrong they were was like a little tick of adrenaline. Of course, that alone never truly satisfied the buzz of adrenaline, the need for danger and adventure, so Sherlock found that he often turned to… recreational means.

His drug habit had started at fourteen, the first time his brother offering him a drag of a cigarette pinpointed to a few days after their uncle died horrifically under the blades of a boat. Sherlock and his brother had stood on the damp mounds of the cemetery, clad in black and mourning their confident, handsome young uncle, when Mycroft had silently passed Sherlock a lit cigarette. Since, he’d been blowing smoke out of dorm windows and searching restlessly for something, anything to whisk him away from this life, or, in some cases, bring him back. Eventually, after trying all sorts of inhalants, Sherlock found cocaine and heroin gave him a better high, a deeper fulfillment of the ache inside him.

So, after his brother had ordered him to stay in and finish the paperwork he’d assigned him (to keep his mind sharp, obviously), he shrugged on his heavy charcoal coat and sneaked out the window, pale, thin fingers clasping the metal of the fire escape before dropping him onto the street below.

Indeed, staying at his brother’s flat in London over uni holiday had him itching to be anywhere else, another place or state of mind. 

And a change of state was what he searched now, this night, following the shiny stone patterns of the street, hoping to find the address which his dealer had texted him. 

_A little party never hurt no one, that’s why it’s alright._

Sherlock slithered through the darkness, turquoise eyes flicking over the addresses of various buildings. He walked for a while, dress shoes padding over the damp cement, ’til he peeked ‘round a corner and spotted the three numbers, glinting in silver, that he sought. 

He glanced left and right, checking the privacy of the street, before he ventured forward. As he drew nearer, the thick bass of club-style music thumped through the walls and into the street. He looked up at the house, at its beige, inconspicuous exterior, deducing what sort of party lay inside. From first story windows, foggy and pulsing with rainbow light, he noted quick shadows dancing across the glass, and part of him ached to join them. 

Instead, he focused on walking up the front steps, proudly and silently as he could, knocking on the front door with a gloved hand. A few tense seconds passed, and Sherlock was about to retreat out of embarrassment, when the door opened. 

A tall, skinny, pink-eyed young woman clad in a small yellow blouse and even smaller jean shorts, red hair piled high in a sloppy bun, looked him up and down. He deduced her quickly, eyes darting to the scars on her wrists and the purple marks on her neck. He swallowed down his information, willing himself not to put her off as she spoke to him.

“What you want?”

“I- I’m here to pick something up.” 

She glanced behind him then turned her attention back inside, where Sherlock could see flickering light against clouds of smoke. Some people milled about the place, looking out the door to inspect Sherlock. The girl mouthed something to them, and they skittered away.

Sherlock prompted himself to clarify as the girl lolled her heard forward, glassy eyes sliding back to him. “Paul Parker? I - I mean, Pinky Parker. He - I - He told me to pick it up here.”

Another moment passed. Sherlock swore a fly crossed the woman’s eyes without her registering it. He knew that stoned, glazed look well. He found it didn’t feel as good as the rush of dopamine that heroin or coke gave him, however. 

“Oh,” she mouthed. The music behind her almost drowned her out. “Pinky, right. You’re a customer.”

“Yes -“

“Alright, come in.” She moved aside, and Sherlock stepped up.

“Thank you.”

_You want in, but you just can’t win._

“Take off the gloves and coat, though,” she said, electric blue polished fingers gesturing to his large, designer Belstaff. 

“What, why?”

“S’rules.”

Sherlock scowled, but complied all the same. He moved past her. Once inside, he was immediately hit with the scent of alcohol and marijuana, and he took one strong breath as he unclasped his gloves and slinked out of his coat. He stuffed the gloves into the pockets and folded his precious Belstaff, handing it to the stoned redhead. She closed the door, took it quickly. and disappeared into the dark room behind her. She didn’t look back.

Sherlock turned into the hallway, feeling exposed without his coat, and took another breath. A few people were looking at him, scoping him up at down, but he ignored them as he began to weave through the party.

_So you hang in the likes._

Sherlock moved past the steamy, hot bodies, following the line of the wall with one bare hand as the other pushed through the people. He liked clubs and parties well enough, but that was after he was well and truly high out of his mind. Before that, he didn’t care for it. He didn’t like the people snogging everywhere, nor did he like the glares they gave him when he deduced that their boyfriends had just cheated on them upstairs with underclassmen.

So, as it was too dark and crowded and smoky to look properly look for his dealer, Sherlock found a spot against the wall in the main room and leaned against it, hoping to slink back into the shadows. He’d rather hang here and watch, wait for a glimpse of his dealer, than push through the sweaty, dancing bodies. He sulked back and crossed his arms, eyes raking over everyone and everything before him.

_Young thing on the downtown scene, rolling around at night._

He liked to prowl ‘round at night, dip into house parties, smoke on the streets, or clamber to the top of a hill and feel every quiver of the city’s beating heart.

_Got things that’ve yet to be seen, like your rapper’s delight._

Sherlock watched the people dance, pulling bodies close and grinding up on each other. It was so strange, all this sex in the air, and while he certainly wasn’t a fan of the lusty culture, something low in his stomach tugged at the flash of handsome boy smiles and rough, masculine hands smoothing down the swell of a girl’s arse. Some of the boys’ shirts were damp with sweat and clung to the muscles in their backs. Even more were smoking, breathing out long swirls of silver smoke, and _God,_ there was nothing sexier than a handsome boy with a cigarette.

He soaked in the sight with greedy eyes, breathing in that same hot smoke, deep into his tender lungs, ’til he felt heavy with heat from the room and the strange need in his groin.

_A little party never hurt no one, that’s why it’s alright._

Something about the atmosphere was relaxing in a fucked up way. He didn’t know anybody, truly nobody here but his dealer, and yet the pull of people, the shared love of alcohol and drugs and the night, had Sherlock sinking into the scene comfortably, at least from his spot on the wall. Sherlock really didn’t like people, not really, but as everyone ignored him, only enjoying themselves, he didn’t feel inspected and ridiculed, like he often did when surrounded.

_You want in, but you just can’t win._

Part of him wanted to be at the center of the dance floor, familiar and loose and part of the scene. Maybe he might even have had the chance to grind into a fit bloke, feel the sharp spike of arousal in his stomach at the touch of stubble and lips on his neck… but it’d never been like that for him. He’d never met someone who made him feel that, someone who he’d want to take out onto the dance floor. He’d never been a part of that world, so he could only stand back and watch as everyone else enjoyed it for him.

_So you stay in the lights._

He chased the fantasy away. He stayed cold and aloof on the wall, party lights sparkling in his detective eyes.

_You’re so Art Deco, out on the floor._

Sherlock looked quite a sight in the milieu of the party. Tall and thin with a mess of dark curls and a handsome face, he watched the people at the center of the floor, admiring them with dark, sharp eyes. With his long limbs and black trousers, matching black silk dress shirt pushed up his forearms, he resembled a piece of art, moody and brooding, unamused. However, he was quite interested in the relationships and secrets that played before him, and while his face was impassive, his mind raced, his body longing to join the sway of dancers. 

About ten minutes passed before Sherlock finally gave in to the pull of the music and the rock of the people’s bodies. He moved through them, shivering as he brushed past a fit bloke, out into the dance floor.

_Shining like gunmetal, cold and unsure._

Eyes gleaming silver under the new colors of light, flickering cool and blue across his pale face, he stood staid and still at the center of the dance floor. He was unsure about fully letting go, letting himself dance like he wanted to. After all, he seldom released that part of him, save lonely nights in the studio of his university. However, the music coursed through him, smoke filling his lungs, and he felt himself sway unconsciously, bodies moving around him. He tipped his chin back and closed his eyes. The heat of the people seeped into his damp skin, elbows and backs and bums brushing against him. He swayed in the darkness to the slow, pulsing beat of the music. He didn’t give into temptation to dance as he had nobody to dance with and didn’t want to be _that_ guy, dancing by himself. So he swayed, rocking his hips lightly.

He was lost to the atmosphere of the dance for a long time, at least a song or two, before he opened his eyes again.

When he did, he looked across the dance floor to the opposite wall. There, leaning up against it, just like he had, was something from a dream.

Solid and compact with tight, toned arms and a little waist, a handsome, golden-haired young man looked ‘round the party, oblivious to Sherlock’s heated gaze.

It might have been the smoke in the air, or it just the slow, rolling melody of the music, but something had Sherlock’s mind going foggy. Heat coiled into his stomach and spread out like burning liquid. Unlike anything he’d felt before, it had Sherlock aroused in both body and mind. 

_Baby, you’re so ghetto, you’re looking to score._

Against all logic, all reason, and all previous failures at sexual encounters, Sherlock knew one thing. He wanted the man across the room. He wanted to sleep with him, claw at his strong back and suck marks into his skin.

_When they all say hello, you try to ignore them._

His attraction must have been evident to the bodies around him, perhaps it was the prickle of his skin or the smell of him. because suddenly two girls beside him turned. They were drenched in sweat and the tender skin under their eyes were black with makeup, but they smiled at him as brightly as they could. One of them mouthed hello as the other waved foolishly. The moved closer to him, trapping him between them, tight clothes pulled even tighter by the crowd of bodies around them.

One of them put her hand on Sherlock’s arm, but he flinched it away. He tried to ignore her sad whimper, turning his eyes back on the boy across the room.

_‘Cause you want more._

He was still gorgeous. Sherlock still wanted him.

_Why?_

The stranger was like the thing Sherlock had always been missing, a lovesong that he’d previously misunderstood. He didn’t even care if he was straight, disinterested, or would flat out come to hate him. Seeing him, knowing he existed, having him so close, just there across the room, was enough.

_You want more. Why?_

Sherlock watched as the stranger tapped his foot to the music. He noticed the clench of his fists and the roll of his neck. Sherlock pressed his lips together, still swaying to the music. The girls had moved on. Sherlock didn’t notice, his eyes were still at the golden wallflower across the room. He was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He must have heard Sherlock’s thought then, because he looked away from whatever he was observing and directly at Sherlock. Sherlock’s stomach fluttered, his heartbeat quickening. 

_You want more. Why?_

Looking right at him now, the boy kicked himself away from the wall and propped a brow. He kept his eyes on Sherlock as he moved forward, weaving between the bodies. As he came closer, Sherlock felt high.

_‘Cause you want more._

Then he was right there, scoping his eyes up and down Sherlock’s slender body, his sweaty dress shirt and open collar, eyeing the pale columns of his neck before smiling up at him. It was the most incredible smile Sherlock had ever seen, and he was dumbstruck.

“Hi,” the handsome stranger against the music, eyes creasing in a tight grin. 

Sherlock swallowed.“H-hello,” he stuttered.

“What’s your name?” It was almost a yell, since the bass pumped heavily around them, but Sherlock’s eyes were stuck on the stranger’s lips, and he could read them well. He would read them for the rest of his life, should this man allow it.

“Sherlock,” he mouthed back.

_A little party never hurt no one, so you stay out late._

The party continued on around them, the darkness of the night seeping into the small house, casting everyone there as wild children, dancing under the moonlight.

_A little party never hurt no one, that’s what your friends say._

Smiling up at him again, Sherlock’s newfound crush said, “My name’s John. You party often?”

He shook his head. Then he nodded.

John laughed. God, it was a great sound, and even better to witness. “Well, which is it?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes.”

_You put your life out on the line, you’re crazy all the time._

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He did party, yeah, but it different than this. He was always dangerously high, dangerously lonely. More than once, he’d have to stop himself just before he was really in trouble. Fortunately, that was only sometimes. Mostly, he was in control. He’d slink ‘round the dark corners, get higher, and watch the people dance. He could control the situation then, just dark and artsy, leaning against the walls, smoking on rooftops. Alone and mysterious.

_You put your life out on the line, you’re crazy all the time._

He didn’t have any friends to party with, though, so it wasn’t like he chose to be so lonely and moody.

For some reason, his lust and smoke-hazed mind thought it smart to admit to that.

“I don’t really have any friends to party with,” Sherlock said. 

They were leaning in, so close Sherlock could see the golden of John’s eyelashes under the flashing colors. John, apparently, had begun to sway along with him. Sherlock wasn’t even sure he was still moving, as the blue of John’s eyes and the red of his lips had him dizzy.

“Well, let’s change that. We can be friends.”

Sherlock had never heard words so lovely, even as they were spoken loudly, right into his ear, challenging the heavy music. 

He leaned into John’s atmosphere, aroused by the damp, distinct smell of him, just behind his ear. “Yes, please.”

John pulled back, looked at Sherlock’s eyes, then his mouth, and licked his lips.

Sherlock was still very aroused, even more so with John so close, smelling so good, looking at him like that, telling him he wanted to be friends. It was all surreal. 

Then, as if it wasn’t bad enough feeling the heat of him, the presence, John put his hands on Sherlock’s waist and pulled him flush against him. They both made a small, whining sound, and Sherlock closed his eyes against the warm, solid body against him, as well as the hardness between John’s hips.

Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around John’s middle, smoothing his palms up his sweaty, muscular back. The party around them melted away. All that was left was John’s breath on his neck, his body pulled against him, the feeling of his cock right there with Sherlock’s, just as hard.

John ground into him, squeezing his waist and sliding his hands up Sherlock’s sides. He turned his breath from Sherlock’s neck to his ear, husking over the shell as he whispered, _“A little party never hurt no one.”_

“John,” Sherlock groaned, voice heavy with arousal.

He tucked his nose into the spot behind Sherlock’s ear. _“Not you and me.”_

 _“A little party never hurt no one…”_ Sherlock repeated.

John kissed his neck, tender and steamy and completely sinful. _“We were born to be free.”_

 


End file.
